


Out Of Place

by Imbecamiel



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Change can be hard, Even for newly-made Super Soldiers, Friendship, Gen, Gen Fic, Humor, Missing Scene, Steve being Steve, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:41:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imbecamiel/pseuds/Imbecamiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He stuck with the smiles and the upbeat messages, for the most part. </p><p>People liked to hear about how much better the Super Soldier Serum had made his life, and he was happy enough to talk about it. There was so much bad news out there, people needed every win they could get. And his transformation had been a pretty dramatic win - for him, for science, for America.</p><p>What was much more difficult to explain was just how <i>confusing</i> it all was. Just because a change is for the better doesn't mean it isn't hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out Of Place

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://avengersgen.livejournal.com/1096.html?thread=5192#t5192) on AvengersGen: 
> 
> I'd love to see something dealing with Steve Rogers' transformation: it wasn't really dealt with in the movie, but suddenly being taller and broader (let alone everything else) would take some getting used to. Is he hitting his head on door frames and tripping over his own feet? Is he still carrying the habits of his previous life? And body language and perception- how people react to him on the street, and not just because he's suddenly gorgeous (though that's okay too) but because he's now physically imposing. Does he ever feel melancholy about going through such a radical change, even in the smallest way? Anything and everything exploring this would be good- funny, angsty, horror, sad, triumphant, whatever. Could be the immediate stuff- right after the process, or during the war, or it could be in stuff that comes up after the ice.
> 
>  
> 
> This started out as what I figured would be maybe a thousand words of random Steve introspection, and morphed into... this. Because I am becoming convinced that I am actually incapable of writing a concise fill for _any_ prompt, no matter how much I may try.

He felt so _different_ now.

 

That was a good thing. A really, really good thing. Incredibly, miraculously good. He’d never really imagined the possibility that he might one day be well and truly healthy. Even with modern advancements and innovations—hearing Howard Stark talk about the possibilities of _flying cars_ , for crying out loud—there was just too much wrong with his body. He might hope that one day the medical field would find something that would help with this or that, but he’d long since come to terms with the fact that he’d never be completely _well_. 

 

Fact was, he’d figured for some time that he was likely to die young. Even if one of his existing conditions didn’t get him in the end, his overall constitution just wasn’t sturdy enough. He was always coming down with one thing or another, and sooner or later something would hit that he couldn’t shake. He wasn’t fatalistic. He never, _ever_ stopped fighting. But he was realistic, about some things, at least.

 

It was one of the reasons he was so determined to join the army. So many guys with so much potential were over there fighting and dying to protect freedom. How could he possibly do any less? The fact that he wasn’t as strong as others didn’t mean he should be tucked away and sheltered—he wanted to do as much as he could with whatever life and strength he had.

 

The Super Soldier Serum hadn’t just evened the playing field. It didn’t just take away the asthma, the weak heart, the susceptible constitution with all the lingering effects of childhood illness, to leave him with an opportunity to build his body up to its potential. That alone would've been incredible enough. He might’ve still been smaller than most guys, but with hard work he’d have had a fighting chance.

 

But the serum had gone so far beyond that. He wasn’t just average, he was bigger, taller than most men. Stronger and faster and more resilient than… well, just about anyone, probably. He could work out and train to improve his skill, but the tone and flexibility and reflexes he needed were _there,_ all at once.

 

He might’ve expected to be a bit clumsy at first, as he adjusted to his new build, but no, even there the serum compensated. His senses were keener, his reaction speed was faster, and he had a newfound innate grace and _awareness_ of himself and his surroundings that saved him from most mishaps.

 

He was humbled, and grateful to have been chosen. And, with Erskine’s death, he felt even more keenly the burden of responsibility, even as he marveled at the gift he’d been given. He was finally free, released from the limitations that had been holding him back from doing what everything inside him cried out for. In a way, he was finally free to be _himself._

 

People liked to hear about that, and he was happy enough to talk about it, to pay tribute to the man who’d given him so much. Stories of triumph, beating the odds, were badly needed these days.

 

But there was another side to it all, one he didn’t talk about. One he didn’t know _how_ to talk about. His thoughts and feelings were so mixed up, he hardly knew how to sort through it all for himself, much less make it clear to anyone else.

 

It was… strange. Disorienting, in so many ways.

 

People looked at him so differently now, for one thing.

 

He was used to being pretty well invisible to girls. Bucky, bound and determined to help him out, had arranged plenty of double dates. Some real nice girls, but Steve hadn’t missed the flashes of disappointment—sometimes better concealed than others—when they met him. What dame really wanted to go out with a guy who was that much smaller than she was?

 

Now—well, he wasn’t invisible anymore, that was for sure.

 

He had plenty of appreciation himself for a pretty face and a nice figure, and he wasn’t hypocritical enough to really resent the shallowness of human nature when it came to such first-glance attractions. But after struggling so long just to get a second look, the sudden contrast could be a bit unnerving. He didn’t have Bucky’s innate knowledge of how to easily flirt or fend them off without offense. Not to mention without blushing or stammering.

 

It wasn’t the women who really bothered him, though. In most cases that was just a bit—disconcerting. It was the reactions of other men that tended to throw him most off-balance. They took notice of him now. That initial once-over assessing look was no longer instantly dismissive. Which wasn’t a bad thing, on the whole, if it wasn’t for the other aspects that came along with it.

 

It gave him a jolt every time a stranger angled himself to stand between his girl and Steve when he walked down the street at night, or a man drew himself up to his full height, as if measuring whether he could take Steve in a fight. They couldn’t—but they’d never find that out unless they picked the fight themselves.

 

That had been another surprise. He’d figured that a lot fewer guys would be eager to get in a scrap with him now. While that was true to an extent… a surprising number felt the need to test themselves against someone who seemed to threaten their reputation as the biggest, toughest guy around.

 

Most of the time he’d been able to defuse those potential confrontations with a smile and a few conciliatory words, but the fact that it _kept happening_ had been bewildering to him. Hey, he knew he could take down pretty much anyone he wanted to now. He didn’t feel the need to prove it by picking fights. He wasn’t _trying_ to provoke people.

 

It wasn’t until he’d talked to Bucky that he’d realized that maybe he was provoking them anyway, if only unintentionally.

 

“Steve, Steve, Steve,” Bucky had chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t you realize? You’re used to walking into a room like you’re daring anyone not to take you seriously. Well—they do now, and some guys just can’t pass up a challenge like that.”

 

He’d been confused at first, not quite understanding what Bucky was getting at. But a bit of more conscious evaluation over the next few days had revealed the answer. He’d never stopped much to think about his body language before. Turned out, he had more ways of reacting to a potential threat than he’d realized.

 

He knew all the signs of a bully, the kind of guy who was all too happy to mess with anyone if he thought he could get away with it. He was all too familiar with the measuring looks, the testing of boundaries, and experience had taught him that in those situations you could either duck and hide, hope to escape attention with a bit of appeasement, or you could face up to them, let them know you weren’t just going to knuckle under.

 

He just didn’t have it in him to run or hide from someone like that. He’d back down because someone was right _,_ but not just because they were _bigger._ So he’d lift his chin, square his shoulders, stare them straight in the eyes, and refuse to show the slightest weakness or flinching. All but come right out and ask them if they had a problem with him. (Sometimes he actually _did_ ask them, but there was brave and then there was just stupid. He’d mostly cured himself of that habit years ago.) About half of the time they’d just laugh, or shrug and dismiss him as not worth their while. The rest of the time… well. It wasn’t quite so easy.

 

Only now it was less of a brave, if futile, stand, and more of an invitation to a brawl. Especially if the other guy had had a drink or two too many. One clenched fist, an instinctive bracing of himself against attack, and they’d figure he was looking to start a fight anyway, so they might as well get in the first blow.

 

It was difficult to change habits established over the course of years, but at least being aware of the issue had helped considerably. The unconscious reactions hadn’t been the only problem, though.

 

He’d never been afraid to let people know, and forcefully, if he felt they were acting inappropriately, and he just couldn’t stand by and listen to someone disrespect something or someone he cared about without speaking up. It’d gotten him into plenty of scrapes (and bruises, and occasionally broken bones) in the past.

 

The first time, after the change, that he’d angrily snapped at a guy who was trash-talking the war effort in general, and soldiers in particular, to lay off it already and show a little respect—only for the man to actually flinch back, fear flashing over his expression as he raised his hands in a placating gesture—it’d struck him harder than any physical blow. He’d left hastily, feeling ill, Erskine’s admonitions—not to change who he was, to remain a good man—replaying again and again in his mind.

 

The trouble was, it seemed like remaining a good man would _require_ changing who he was, in some ways. Or… maybe not who he _was,_ so much as how he expressed it. He couldn’t, wouldn’t become one of the bullies he detested so much himself. He’d have to watch his temper, moderate his responses as the situation called for it. It helped to realize that it was much the same as his physical strength: just as, away from the battlefield, he would pull his punches in an ordinary fistfight now, he didn’t always need to use the full force of his potential for intimidation in a _verbal_ altercation anymore either.

 

He’d always believed in winning an argument because you were _right,_ not because you shouted the loudest or hit the hardest. He’d fight on an even field, even if he’d never been given that chance when he was the weaker party. If it meant sometimes holding himself back more than necessary, or walking away (not running, never running) from a fight, then so be it. Better to cede an ultimately-unimportant argument than to lose _himself_ by learning to push people around just because he could.

                                                                             

There were just so many new things to be aware of, to be careful of. Not that remaining aware of the changes was much of a problem. He was faced with a myriad of reminders on a daily basis—little, insignificant things, the utter _newness_ of which served to nudge him just a little off balance every time.

 

Beds that were always inches too short. Mirrors in bathrooms that were too low to allow him to shave without stooping. Trying to keep his limbs out of anyone’s way when he sat at a table. A perpetual peripheral awareness of doorways and ceiling beams and light fixtures, ducking and dodging to keep from hitting his head. Trying to avoid blocking anyone’s view at a theater or event. (He’d experienced enough of the frustration of sitting behind someone tall himself.) Constant restraint, to keep from doing damage to surroundings that suddenly seemed so breakable. The echo of older instincts telling him that yes, of course he could squeeze through that small gap—when logic and awareness of his new size told him that he couldn’t, not anymore. Getting so _hungry._ He’d known plenty of want, times when he could barely scrape together enough to keep body and soul together, but that was nothing next to the gnawing, raging beast that his increased metabolism would turn his stomach into if he couldn’t get food regularly enough. His body might be able to process nutrients more efficiently and operate under near-starvation conditions far better than most, but it certainly wasn’t happy about being pushed to those limits.

 

None of it really mattered, much, not individually. But together it combined to make him feel sometimes as if he’d lost his place in the world just as much as he’d finally found it. Like he’d woken up in the middle of someone else’s life and was just waiting for someone to realize their mistake and return everything to the way it used to be.

 

He’d thought that it would be easier, once he was reunited with Bucky. He’d always been closer to him than anyone, and Bucky had known him _before—_ if there was anyone he could explain it all to, or who would _get it,_ even if he couldn’t explain properly, surely it would be Bucky.

 

And it had been easier, just being around him again. But even with him, Steve found himself oddly tongue-tied and uncertain when it came right down to it. Partly… well, it just wouldn’t be right, not after all that Bucky had been through, seeming to complain about trivial things when he’d been given so many unexpected blessings. And even Bucky, for all the comfortable familiarity of their relationship, wasn’t _quite_ the same around him. He was still trying to figure out how much of that was the result of Bucky’s ordeal, and how much was because of Steve himself, as they felt their way back to familiar ground.

 

So, in the end, he’d only gotten around to talking about it in roundabout bits and snatches, never been able to explain the fact that it wasn’t just one thing or another that took some getting used to. It was… _all of it,_ at the same time _._

 

He’d known the world would be different for him, if the serum worked. But there was no way he could’ve actually been prepared for it.

 

-0-0-0-0-0-

 

Steve ran a hand over the smooth, aged wood of the doorframe as he ducked to enter the pub. It was one of the things he found so fascinating about England: the weight of ages of history that seemed present everywhere you went. Of course, he could only explore it in snatches here and there when he stopped over briefly on his way to or from the front. He wondered if he’d ever be able to afford to come back, sometime after the war, when he could stop and look at it all properly.

 

A question for another time. Once the war was won, and he could be sure there’d still be something here to appreciate.

 

Looking around once inside, he caught sight of Bucky almost immediately. He was seated at a small table, leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, flirting long-distance with a pretty barmaid across the room.

 

Classic Bucky. It was good to see.

 

Bucky had been… shaken by his time as a prisoner of HYDRA. It hadn’t been a walk in the park for any of the men, of course, but Bucky…. They hadn’t discussed it in depth, not yet, but even aside from the condition he’d found him in Steve had picked up on enough details to have a pretty good idea of what’d happened to him.

 

Bucky was doing better now, regaining his balance, finding—not his courage, he’d never lost that, but his buoyancy. _Himself._ But Steve wasn’t fooling himself that everything was back to the way it had been.

 

He was torn, so badly wanting Bucky there at his side, backing him up as he always had in the past, and yet not wanting to push him too hard, too fast to be back to normal. But war afforded no one much time for recovery, and in the end it’d been Bucky himself who insisted that he was ready to go. Steve hadn’t been about to tell him no, not when he could see how much Bucky needed and wanted it as well, but he was concerned. He knew Bucky still wasn’t sleeping as well as he should, hadn’t missed the times when he would retreat inside himself, gaze going distant and dark for a minute before he shook himself out of his memories.

 

So he wouldn’t say no, but he was keeping an eye on him. It was odd, to find himself in the very role of concerned protector that Bucky had so often played on his behalf. Steve knew he probably wouldn’t have made it through the last decade to reach this point if it hadn’t been for Bucky. He could only hope that he could live up to his friend’s example as he tried to watch out for him in turn.

 

He weaved his way between people and furniture toward where Bucky was waiting for him. The room was crowded, the ceilings low, and the air warm and heavy with smoke, but the pub had an oddly cozy feel for all that. He could see why Bucky liked it. The man had a talent for sniffing out the best places in town. Steve hadn’t spent much time in bars before, himself, not ones like this at any rate—couldn’t usually make it long before the dense air set off his asthma. Needing to gasp and wheeze for every breath wasn’t exactly conducive to a good time.

 

“Hey, Steve!” Noticing his approach, Bucky raised his half-full mug in greeting, before gesturing with it at the untouched pint still on the table. “Thought you weren’t going to show. I was just about to drink yours for you.”

 

Sliding into a chair as he picked up the proffered beer, Steve tilted his head at Bucky, trying to gauge his level of inebriation.

 

“Looks like you’ve had a couple for me already.”

 

Bucky shrugged, cheerfully unrepentant. “Couldn’t let them sit there and get too old, could I? Besides—old habits, and all that.”

 

Steve couldn’t help laughing at the reminder. All right, so he’d been a lightweight in more ways than one. Bucky used to joke all the time that he needed a good head start before Steve started drinking, otherwise Steve would be under the table before he could so much as get a good buzz going.

 

“Yeah, well, I’ll be the one carrying _you_ home tonight if you don’t watch out.” Steve sampled his own drink at a leisurely pace. He still enjoyed drinking socially, but given he was impervious to alcohol’s effects anyway there was no sense in going through it too quickly.

 

“Eh, it’s only fair. It’s your turn anyway. I’m gonna enjoy civilization while I can.” Pulling out a cigarette, Bucky pushed his chair back to balance on two legs—only to scramble to keep from tumbling to the floor when a passerby bumped up against the chair and disrupted his precarious balance.

 

Steve hid a grin in his drink, returning Bucky’s narrow-eyed dare to laugh at him with an innocent look. “Sure, fair enough. Just remember we’re shipping out again tomorrow, so you might regret it if you’re still _enjoying_ the effects in the morning. Crossing the channel with a hangover doesn’t sound particularly fun to me.”

 

 “Good point.” Bucky grimaced at the thought. “Guess I had better slow down a bit.”

 

As they lapsed into a moment’s companionable silence, Steve studied his friend, trying to determine just how much of his good mood might be a front. He was pleased to find little of the coiled tension that was so often just under the surface these days.

 

Catching him staring, Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Plotting how to capture the essence of my charm and dashing good looks in one of your famous portraits?”

 

Steve snorted. By now all the Commandos knew his tendency to draw the people he cared about. Somehow he just felt it captured his memories better than any photograph. Most of them looked on his penchant for art with some bemusement, and it was the source of a fair amount of good-natured ribbing. Requests for one of them to hold still for a minute or two so he could get some detail right were met with exaggerated “heroic” posing more often than any actual cooperation. He didn’t mind. Sometimes it seemed like the most ridiculous, quick sketches done at their demand were the ones that captured them the best in the end.

 

“No, not planning any portraits tonight,” he replied. “Just wondering how you’re doing. With… well, everything.”

 

“Fine.” It was too casual, too quick, too final.

 

“Sure?” He tried to keep his tone light, not wanting to back Bucky into a corner, but unwilling to be put off too easily.

 

Bucky made a face at him. “Since when did you start mother-henning me?”

 

Steve shrugged. “My turn, remember? You’ve looked out for me often enough when I’ve needed it.”

 

Bucky scowled, shoulders tensing. “Look, a couple bad dreams doesn’t mean that I’m not—”

 

“No, it doesn’t,” he cut in calmly. “Bucky—I’m not saying that you’re not pulling your weight, or asking you to act like nothing ever happened. As Captain, I need to know where everyone on the team is at. And… as your _friend_ … I just want to know if there’s anything I can do to help. You’ve seen me at my lowest plenty of times. You know I’m not going to think any less of you. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, just… don’t hide things from me. Please.”

 

“Yeah. Alright.” Bucky sighed, his expression softening as the defensiveness seemed to drain out of him. “I really _am_ doing better, Steve. I have a little trouble sleeping some nights, but who doesn’t these days? It’s getting better, and it’s a _lot_ easier when I have something to do. I’ll be alright, really.”

 

“Okay.” Steve nodded. “You’ll let me know—if there’s anything I can do?”

 

“I will.”

 

Satisfied that Bucky meant what he said, Steve picked up his drink again, content to leave it at that for the time being.

 

Bucky’s mood lightened once more, now that he could change the subject. He pushed his chair back.

 

“Hey, I’m going to see if I can scare up something to eat. You hungry?” Before Steve could answer, he shook his head, chuckling. “Of course you are. When aren’t you these days? I’ll get you something too.”

 

Grinning sheepishly, Steve leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. As he glanced around, his eyes caught those of the girl Bucky had been flirting with before. She gave him a wink. He gave her a brief smile before looking away hastily, not wanting to seem to be staring.

 

She giggled, and he just barely caught her murmured, “Shy one, hmm?” Feeling his face flush, he struggled not to show any reaction. It was almost like eavesdropping, however unintentional—a normal person would never have caught the words, not at that distance across a noisy room. He resisted the urge to glance back and see if she was still looking at him.

 

It made him feel a bit claustrophobic, sometimes, drawing so much attention. He hadn’t realized just how accustomed he was to going unnoticed. It’d been an advantage as an artist, being able to sit back and observe the people around him without anyone caring or making anything of it. He wasn’t nearly as low-profile now, and even when people weren’t looking he just _felt_ conspicuous.

 

His eyes widened a bit as he caught sight of Bucky, returning with the fruits of his quest for food. He was somehow balancing a couple of plates, a small basket, and a fresh pint of beer. As he stood hastily to help before something could fall, Bucky angled the larger of the two plates in his direction. It appeared the spoils included several cheese sandwiches on thick bread—two on the plate he’d given Steve, one for himself—hardboiled eggs, pickled onions, and pork scratchings.

 

Taking his seat again, Steve shifted to find a better way to arrange his cramped legs. Unfortunately, he’d picked either a poor time or worse place to stretch out—probably both. He just had time to reach for a sandwich when the barmaid who’d winked at him earlier hurried by to deposit her load of emptied mugs at the bar. Her foot caught on his leg as she passed and she began to overbalance.

 

He shot out a hand quickly, trying to steady her and keep her from falling to the floor. But the space was narrow, and her feet were all tangled up in his, and she wavered and slid sideways until she ended up all but sitting in his lap.

 

Steve froze. He should probably dosomething _,_ but he had absolutely no idea what the appropriate response to a situation like this was. If he didn’t at least _speak_ soon he was liable to get himself slapped, sitting there _gaping_ at her like that, but—

 

And then, suddenly, she laughed.

 

“Well soldier, if you wanted to get better acquainted all you had to do was say so.”

 

Her smile began to grow rather mischievous, and finally, finally his brain unfroze and allowed him to take action. Standing, very carefully, he set her on her feet. He cleared his throat.

 

“I’m—I’m so sorry, miss. Are you alright?”

 

He wasn’t quite sure how to read the look she was giving him now, but at least she didn’t seem too mad.

 

“Quite alright, no harm done,” she said. “Just a bit damp, is all.”

 

She was, he now realized—reflex had fortunately caused her grip on the mug handles to tighten as she lost her balance, so she hadn’t dropped any, but the dregs left in them had splashed down the front of her. He didn’t even have a napkin or something handy to help her dry off. He fumbled in his pocket for a clean handkerchief, only to hesitate again when he finally came up with one. He couldn’t very well start patting down the front of her dress. He settled for holding it out to her, awkwardly, but was met with a wry look as he belatedly realized that both her hands were still full.

 

“I could, um, take some of those for you?” He offered. “Or you could…” He glanced helplessly at their table, which didn’t really have room to spare for her to set them down.

 

She just laughed again, shaking her head as she turned to go. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll dry off in the back.”

 

He watched her walk away, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand, before realizing that his little mishap had gained him quite the audience. Some of them were still watching him, as if waiting for an encore to the night’s entertainment. Shoving the handkerchief back in his pocket, he sat down again quickly, hunching his shoulders a bit as he carefully tucked his feet all the way under the table.

 

Bucky, traitorous rat that he was, was all but choking on silent laughter, wiping at streaming eyes with his shirtsleeve.

 

“Thanks for the help, there,” Steve grumbled. Glancing around, he was relieved to see that the attention of the pub’s other patrons had moved on.

 

“Looked like you were doing just fine on your own.”

 

“If your definition of ‘fine’ is limited to making a memorable impression, sure.” He started in on one of his sandwiches, trying to will away the embarrassment.

                                                                                                                                 

“Well, it’s certainly key.” Bucky grinned. “Come on, relax, Steve. It’s not a crime to enjoy a bit of attention from a pretty dame, you know.”

 

“I know, I know, it’s just…”

 

“It’s Agent Carter, isn’t it?” At Steve’s startled expression, he crowed triumphantly. “Ha! It _is._ ”

 

“Bucky…” Steve’s tone was borderline pleading, which was just an invitation to further teasing, but he couldn’t help it. He knew he probably didn’t stand a chance with her in the end, but she was— _important_ to him.    

 

Bucky raised a placating hand. “Hey, loyalty’s a great thing, I’m not gonna get down on you for that. But who knows? A bit of practice might give you some confidence, help you out next time you see her. I don’t think she’s going to shoot you if you _talk_ to other girls.”

 

“You’d be surprised,” Steve muttered around a mouthful of bread and cheese.

 

“Oh?” Buck’s eyebrows rose.

 

“She emptied a gun at my shield after she walked in on me and Private Lorraine kissing.”

 

Bucky blinked at him. “Wow. Huh. Still—at least it proves she likes you, right? She wouldn’t get that mad if she didn’t.”  

 

“It’s not like… there’s not really anything _going on_ between us.”

 

Bucky tilted his head. “You should ask her out, get her dinner or something.”

 

“Maybe.” Steve temporized. “There’s just so much going on right now…”

 

“Sure. And it might be that way for a long time yet—or the war could end next week. You can’t leave these things for ‘someday’ when the timing’s right. If something’s important, you’ve got to act now, or you never know when the chance will come around again.”

 

“I know.” Steve looked down, pushing the crumbs from his egg around on his plate with one finger. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. I just can’t quite figure out how.”

 

“Yeah, well, if you don’t do something pretty soon, I might have to make a move myself. Maybe a bit of competition would help you figure a little faster. But, wait a second…” Bucky grinned as his brain finally caught up with Steve’s earlier statement. “Did you say you were _kissing_ Private Lorraine? When did this happen?”

 

Steve groaned. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. Just—never mind that. It wasn’t anything, really.”

 

“Oh, is that so?” Bucky was practically gleeful now. “What happened to not hiding things? I kind of think that a development as monumental as Steve Rogers overcoming his tongue-tied state around pretty girls long enough to get to the stage of actually _kissing_ one is something that needs to be shared.”

 

“I wasn’t really kissing her—well, I kind of was, at the end. I didn’t _mean_ to, she just… it just… kind of _happened_.”

 

Bucky’s laughter sounded half despairing as he buried his face in one hand.

 

“What?” Steve growled defensively.

 

“It’s just, you…” Bucky waved a hand vaguely, still laughing but at least making an effort to restrain it. “You’re… Well, some things haven’t changed, at least. To be honest, it’s kind of a relief. Sometimes it feels like the balance of the whole world’s been turned upside down.”

 

“Flattering as the suggestion that I’m your whole world is…” He picked up his second sandwich, trying to hide a smirk.

 

Bucky chucked a piece of pickled onion at his head—which he intercepted without even looking. They both paused for a moment, equally startled, looking at the onion in his left hand, before Steve shrugged with deliberate casualness and popped it in his mouth.

 

As Steve polished off the last of his second sandwich, Bucky nudged his hardboiled egg in his direction. “Go on, you need it more than I do.”

 

Steve smiled, warming at the familiar joke. Before the war, the serum, it’d been about putting a bit of meat on his bones, making him look less like a stiff breeze would knock him over. These days it was about getting the fuel needed to keep his body running in top shape wherever possible, because he never knew when he’d need to call on those reserves.

 

It always came with a twinge of guilt, though, eating that much in these days of scarcity and rationing, no matter how much he needed it. When everyone was tightening their belts and cutting back, both on and away from the front, he was unwilling to do any less. Unfortunately, the times out in the field when he’d tried to get by on no more than what the men around him were eating had… not ended very well.

 

Bucky had been particularly incensed at his “stupidity” when he’d figured out what was going on. Steve had tried to point out that resupplying was enough of an issue out in the field without him eating enough for three or four men. Bucky had countered by arguing that, given he was doing the _work_ of three or four men for the _pay_ of one, getting enough to eat wasn’t exactly asking for any special favors. Dugan had roughly seconded that thought with the declaration that they’d gladly hold him down and force-feed him, if that was gonna be what it took to keep him from fainting on them. (In fairness, he’d never actually _fainted_ from hunger. Well, there had been that one time when he’d blacked out for a minute or so, but there’d been… extenuating circumstances.)

 

He still rarely got enough to truly be satisfied, but it was better, much better, now that all of them looked for small ways to help him supplement his rations when they could. It had become something of a strange hobby for them. The extent of their… _creativity…_ in problem-solving once they got together on a project could be truly mind-boggling. It was—embarrassing, yes, but also strangely touching. Even if he did have to veto some of their wilder suggestions.

 

As Steve polished off the last of the pork scratchings, Bucky’s expression twisted up in bemusement.

 

“Full yet?”

 

Steve smiled self-consciously, shrugging. “Close enough.”

 

“So what’s it like? Being so…” Bucky waved a hand vaguely, finally concluding with, “different?”

 

“It’s—” Steve shook his head, at a loss. He finally settled on, “It’s incredible.”

 

Bucky grinned back. “I’ll bet. Must be fun, everything changing, just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Like some kind of magic wish in a fairy tale.”

 

And it was. It really was. He didn’t regret going through with the procedure, not even a little. War was horrible, beyond anything he could have imagined before actually experiencing it, but in a strange, contradictory way his life now was a good one. The Commandos, Bucky, the opportunity to make a difference, using his abilities to their fullest…. It was hard,but it was also satisfying.

 

That strange, lost feeling that rose up when other people treated him differently—that jolt, like missing the bottom step on a flight of stairs, when the world tossed him an unexpected reminder that things weren’t as they used to be—the days when he felt like even _he_ didn’t quite recognize himself—were insignificant in comparison. He did wish, though, that he could find some way to explain to someone how _confusing_ it all was, sometimes.

 

But he wasn’t sure there was a way. Not without sounding unforgivably ungrateful. So for now he’d stick with the smiles and the brighter side of things. He’d get used to it, he was sure, and with time the world wouldn’t feel so foreign anymore.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> I’m actually seriously tempted to write a follow-up scene set after Avengers, where Steve finally does wind up having a real discussion with someone about it all. (Probably Tony, who knows a thing or two himself about major body modifications?) So… shall have to let that stew a bit, and see if I come up with enough for it to turn into something. 
> 
> By the way, Hakaisha has written an awesome fill for the same prompt, which elaborates on it in different ways, so if you haven’t read it already—go do so [here](518661)! I was just finishing this up when she posted hers, so, um, any resemblance between the stories is probably either coincidence or the subconscious influence of her previous writing on my headcanon. XD


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